He held her gaze, his own pained and conflicted. But finally, he gave a consenting nod.
“When I went to see my mother today . . .” She paused, realizing she needed to start at the beginning. “I told you how, after my father died, my mother married Barton Ledbetter soon after. Too soon after.”
He watched her closely.
“I always knew there was something . . . different about the man. But it wasn’t until one night, when he found me alone in the barn . . .” She felt Tate tense beside her. “He’d been drinking, and he . . .” She closed her eyes as she recounted to him what had happened. Sensing the tension within him building, she hurried to finish. “But Demetrius, the man I told you about, the slave in my father’s house who taught me to play the fiddle . . . He heard me screaming and broke through the door. He threw Barton across the barn . . . then took me inside to my grandmother.” She wiped her eyes. “My grandmother moved me into her bedroom that very night, and then a month later, we were on our way to Vienna.”
He took hold of her hand. “And today?” he whispered, his deep voice husky.
“Today as I was leaving the house, h-he came home. He cornered me in the kitchen. Against the worktable. I . . . fought and screamed. Mother and Delphia, our housekeeper, were upstairs. So they couldn’t hear me.”
He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, her hand clasped so tightly between his it was almost painful. Yet she didn’t want him to ever let go.
“Then the next thing I knew, I’d managed to open one of the drawers in the worktable. Where the butcher knives are kept.”
Tate looked back at her, his expression inscrutable.
“I stabbed him. In the arm. And then I ran. And I came here.”
He opened his mouth to speak but exhaled a ragged breath instead. “So . . . he didn’t . . .”
She looked at him and quickly gathered his meaning. “No. He didn’t.”
Tate bowed his head, whispering something she couldn’t hear. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then drew her close.
“I want to kill him,” he whispered.
“Tate, I told you—”
She tried to look up at him, but he held her close.
“I said I want to, Rebekah. Not that I will. And be it right or wrong, thinking about the former helps me at the moment.”
She slipped her arms around his waist. The protection of his embrace and the solid beat of his heart poured peace and healing into her that she wouldn’t have thought imaginable at the moment.
“Once you left your mother’s house today, you didn’t go back.”
She shook her head. “But I know he wouldn’t hurt my mother. He’d have to get past Delphia first.”
“This Delphia . . . she’s a formidable woman, I take it.”
“She is. Demetrius was her older brother. He meant so much to me. In fact, in my heart, the parts of the violin solo I helped with in the fourth movement—”
“Are for him,” he finished softly.
She nodded, and he cradled her head against his chest.
“What I wasn’t told, Tate, until I returned from Vienna, is that Demetrius was killed shortly after I left all those years ago. And what I didn’t know for certain until today was that—”
“Ledbetter killed him.”
Soft sobs rose in her throat. “Because of me . . .”
They sat together on the sofa, and he held her as she cried, the ache in her chest much like that she’d experienced when her father died.
The lamplight cast undulating shadows against the bare plaster walls, and Rebekah gradually realized that, while what Barton had done today—and what she’d done to him—was harrowing, it was what he’d done to Demetrius all those years ago that was breaking her heart in two.
She was mourning the loss of Demetrius like she should have been given the opportunity to do all those years ago.
“Rebekah?”
The soft voice drifted toward her from far away. Rebekah blinked her eyes open and saw Tate standing over her. She looked around, slowly gaining her bearings.
“It’s all right.” He took her hand. “You fell asleep for a while. But I’ve been here the whole time.”
He helped her sit up, and she ran a hand through her hair.
“Thank you . . . for staying with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Rebekah. I . . . ” He briefly looked away. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He helped her stand . . . only, he didn’t let go of her hand. “Do you feel well enough to leave?”
“Of course.” She started gathering her things.
“I’m going to take you to Belmont first, and then I’m stopping by your mother’s house to—”
“Tate, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I simply want to make sure your mother and Delphia are safe. And then locate your stepfather.”
“And if you find him?”
“We’ll have . . . a discussion.”
She looked at him.
“I can take care of myself, Rebekah. Have you forgotten . . .” His smile was both tender and telling. “I’m a highlander . . . first and always.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, but then she did remember something she hadn’t shared with him. “Delphia told me recently that the police had come to the house wanting to speak with Barton. But he wasn’t there. Delphia said he comes and goes a lot. And travels quite often. In fact, he had a suitcase with him today when he came in the door.”
“Did he mention anything about going somewhere?”
She shook her head. “But I wish he’d leave and never come back.”
The carriage rounded the tree-lined curve, and the lamplit windows of Belmont Mansion came into view. Tate peered down, Rebekah soft and warm beside him, her head on his shoulder, moonlight on her face. And as he had since the moment she’d told him what happened earlier that day, he thanked God again that nothing worse had occurred.
He’d wanted to bring her to Belmont earlier, but she’d insisted on waiting at his house with Mrs. Pender while he went to see her mother and Delphia. As it turned out, Rebekah’s mother had been asleep, but Delphia was exactly as Rebekah described her. Formidable was almost too gentle a word for the woman.
Delphia had a protective streak a mile wide for Rebekah’s mother, and for Rebekah too. When he’d relayed to Delphia what Barton had attempted that afternoon, shock slid into the woman’s eyes followed by a fury the likes of which Tate wouldn’t ever want aimed at him. Delphia’s opinion of Barton Ledbetter was clear. And scathing. It was clear she held the same opinion of the man as Rebekah.
Delphia said she hadn’t noticed anything different in the kitchen at first. Until she spotted drops of blood and noticed a drawer open—and a butcher knife missing. One from a set that had belonged to Rebekah’s grandmother.
A butcher knife . . . Tate looked down at Rebekah, her eyes closed. The woman was fearless.
Delphia had been confused and concerned but hadn’t been certain what to do about what she’d found, so she was relieved when Tate told her Rebekah was safe and secure at his home. She had found no sign of Ledbetter at the house. By her calculations, and Tate agreed, the man had likely taken off. Tate had no idea where he’d gone, but having seen him in Chicory Hollow, he planned to contact the authorities there first thing in the morning and let them know to be watching for him.
The carriage slowed to a stop in front of the mansion.
“I don’t want to get out” came a soft whisper beside him.
He smiled, feeling much the same, and wishing again that his future was as secure as it once had been. He leaned forward to open the door, when she touched his arm.
“Tate, I’ve been wondering about something.”
He paused.
“My grandmother was scarcely ill a day in her life. Yet she died in her sleep. Do you think that Barton could have . . .”
Understanding what she was asking, Tate wasn’t sure how to answer. He wouldn’t h
ave put it past the man—Ledbetter appeared to lack even the thinnest thread of moral fiber—and yet . . . “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I do know what Angus Whitcomb would say. ‘We won’t be leavin’ this earth one minute before the good Lord wills it, nor one minute past.’”
Her eyes watered. “Thank you for that.”
He walked her to the front door, and made a suggestion he hoped she would heed, yet somehow already knew she wouldn’t. “You’ve been through so much today, Rebekah. Why don’t you take some time and rest. Don’t worry about the symphony or opening night, or any of those details. Mrs. Murphey and Mrs. Bixby can—”
“The last thing I need, Tate, is to sit in a parlor for days on end and think about what happened. I want to work. I need to work.” Her gaze was earnest. “I’ve allowed Barton Ledbetter to overshadow far too much of my life already. I’m not about to let him ruin all that you and I have worked for—all we’ve done to honor two very special men in our lives. So . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, right after Pauline’s lesson.”
He waited for the front door to close and latch behind her, then climbed into the carriage.
On the way home, he mulled over what she’d said. Though he guessed they’d likely never know the truth about whether or not Barton was responsible for her grandmother’s death, he couldn’t deny that there was a certain poetic justice in how Rebekah had defended herself today.
Perhaps that was answer enough in itself.
Later that night, unable to sleep, Rebekah rose and lit the oil lamp, then wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She drank the remaining now-tepid tea Cordina had delivered earlier that evening. But the tea cakes, for the first time she could remember, remained untouched on the delicate china plate.
She felt such a restlessness inside.
Maybe it stemmed from what had happened earlier that day with Barton—understandable—or maybe it was nervousness about opening night for Tate and the orchestra, but it felt like something more.
Something . . . unsettled.
She crossed to the darkened window and stared out for several moments, moonlight casting the world beyond in a silvery sheen. The clock on the mantel ticked ever faithfully, its face reading half past one.
Rebekah yawned and drained her cup. When she set it back on the tray, her gaze fell to the bundle of letters from her grandmother. She fingered the ribbon, then remembered something she had yet to do.
And the task, though small, heartened her.
She untied the ribbon and found the last two letters she’d read from the stack, then retrieved her Bible and crawled back beneath the covers. She turned the first letter over.
Genesis 31:49
She reread the prayer on the back, then looked up the passage her grandmother had noted . . . and smiled. “‘The Lord watch between me and thee,’” she read aloud, “‘when we are absent one from another.’”
Oh, Nana . . . “I love you so much,” she whispered, able to picture her grandmother’s sweet smile even now.
She reached for the second letter, reread the prayer, and turned in her Bible to the Scripture reference.
“And she said,” she read silently, “According unto your words, so be it. And she sent them away, and they departed: and she bound the scarlet line in the window.”
Rebekah frowned. Then read the verse again. What was that supposed to mean? She scanned the surrounding verses, somewhat familiar with the passage about Rahab, the prostitute, though it had been a long time since she’d read it.
She looked back again at the envelope to make sure she’d looked up the correct verse. Joshua 2:21. That was right.
She reread the prayer more carefully, her attention focusing on a specific sentence.
But what I find most difficult to reconcile, Lord, is how you force those you love to walk roads that we would never force our own loved ones to walk.
She thought of Tate, and how he was being made to walk a road that she herself would never have chosen for him. And yet God had. For some reason she couldn’t begin to understand. Yet she was trying to trust.
She read the Scripture one last time but saw no correlation with what her grandmother had written. Maybe Nana had been off a verse or two.
Considering that likelihood, Rebekah scanned the next handful of chapters, but found nothing—other than being reminded that any army that had dared go up against the army of Israel hadn’t fared well.
Feeling a yawn, she gave in to it and stretched her shoulders, sleep finally feeling within reach. She put her Bible away, turned down the lamp, and pulled the covers up around her face.
But try as she might, she couldn’t get that odd verse out of her mind. Binding a scarlet line in the window . . .
Her grandmother had been so careful in choosing all the other verses. Why would she have—
Rebekah sat up in bed.
Nana had used a red ribbon to tie the letters together. Rebekah flung back the covers, the skin on the back of her neck prickling. Whether from the chill or the possibility of a discovery, she didn’t know. She turned up the lamp and crossed to the desk for the ribbon she’d laid aside. She moved back to the lamplight and held the ribbon up to examine it, bit by bit, but saw only hand-drawn flowers and fanciful curlicues. Nothing that would—
Words. There were words written amidst the drawing. Or more rightly, someone had written over it. She squinted and held the ribbon at an angle in order to see it better.
To whoever finds this, in the event of my passing, please see that my granddaughter, Rebekah Ellen Carrington, receives these letters. Revelation 21:3–4
Heart pounding, Rebekah read the words again. Then searched the rest of the ribbon, both sides, looking for anything else. But that was all. Her throat tightened. Her grandmother had put the letters in the hutch. But why?
One solitary reason stood out in her mind. And tears burned her eyes. She drew in a thready breath. Had her grandmother known she was going to die? Had Barton Ledbetter . . .
Rebekah squeezed the ribbon tight in her hand. Oh, dear God.
Barton had stolen her grandmother’s money, and Delphia herself had said that he’d gotten rid of everything in Nana’s room. Except for these letters. Nana had hidden those away beforehand.
The verse.
Rebekah grabbed her Bible and turned the pages, her hands trembling. She blinked to clear her vision. She read the Scriptures first to herself, her heart going to its knees as the vision of heaven came alive in her mind. Then she read the last verse aloud, needing to actually speak those words into the air around her.
“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.’” She drew in a breath. “‘And there shall be no more death . . . neither sorrow . . . nor crying’”—she wiped her tears—“‘neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’”
Unexpected warmth moved through her. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. What was it Tate had shared with her only hours ago? Something Angus had said . . .
“We won’t be leavin’ this earth one minute before the good Lord wills it, nor one minute past.”
For the longest time, Rebekah stood in the silence, eyes closed, clinging to that thought. Then she turned down the lamp, ribbon clutched in her hand, and crawled into bed, more convinced than ever that there was an afterlife, and that—however her grandmother had died—Nana was waiting for her there even now, along with her father, and Demetrius.
And with a peace she couldn’t begin to understand, much less explain, she closed her eyes and slipped into sleep.
37
A thrum of anticipation filled the concert hall as patrons streamed in through the back and side doors, their attention captivated by the enormity and splendor of their surroundings. Rebekah peered through the curtain’s divide, watching it all. But mainly, her gaze kept returning to the four empty seats in the front.
In Emil’s letter to Tate earlier that week, Emil had written that he, Angus, and Cattabelle would arrive an hour b
efore the start of the symphony. But it was already half past six. And the symphony started at seven.
“Any sign of them yet?”
Rebekah turned, surprised—yet also not—to see Tate standing in the wings. He should be back in his office, concentrating, reviewing the music one last time. This night was so important to him. She glanced back through the curtain, then shook her head.
Please, let them get here.
She’d offered to meet Emil and his parents at the train station, but Tate had assured her Emil knew the way. Now she wished she’d insisted. But at least she was sitting with them, so they wouldn’t get lost in the sea of people afterward.
She joined Tate in the shadows along the side curtains, activity buzzing all around them, everyone intent on the preparations at hand. But for Tate—and even her, in a way—the months, and lifetimes, of preparation were done. Or at least, paused in the moment. Now only the culmination awaited. For him . . . in a matter of minutes when he conducted his symphony. For her . . . in a matter of weeks. If Maestro Leplin extended her an audition, the probability of which didn’t bode well at present. Weeks had passed since she’d written to request an audition, including Tate’s recommendation. She’d heard nothing back. But she decided not to dwell on that for now.
This night was about Tate. And Angus. And a son honoring a father.
She sneaked a glance at him beside her, saw the tense set of his jaw, the singular focus in his gaze, and knew he shared her nervousness. Yet his burden was much greater. She’d assisted him in writing the symphony, yes. But she wasn’t the conductor, the composer.
He’d poured his heart onto the page, the contents now measured in beats and rests, melodies and harmonies, textures and tempos, sharps and flats. Not unlike one’s life. But to have that life—all your work, creativity and inspiration, bits and pieces of your heart that you’d poured onto the page—about to be shared with the world and put on display for all to see, and to judge . . . A shiver spread through her.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 42
